Peter and I have been a couple for 4 years.
Is it funny - odd funny - that we still mack-out in elevators?
Every time we kiss I feel like I’ve won the man-lottery,
that I’m counting and spending the loot all at once.
The man stirs my chemicals.
The bell dings and we separate like caught kids.
The inside elevator door’s mirrored - he’s so handsome.
I know writers are alchemists, that we’re guilty, at times,
of gilding the ordinary until it shines - but he’s the real deal.
.
.
Songs for this:
There goes my baby by Kelly Jones
Russia and the USA different flags on the head
Presidents in pertinent modes thus dreaded
They are arrogant, but they are Brave weepers
They pose as heroes but they are only sleepers
They were never sane... they are just demented!
The call cries for us
Like the push of wind against sand,
We wonder of its power
We crave for the whisper,
Its romantic invitation to stillness
It calls for gypsies and alchemists,
For all humans to lend a hand
In the painting of the mural,
For the craft of our finger
To be gentle gifts of tomorrow
Which we leave for its citizens.
symbol of contrast
like Noah's ark in harsh storm
captivation norm
endurance am I
alluring in mountains rest
winters embrace test
integrated light
across wild echoes stoic
exudes pure stillness
delicate yet tough
unassailable maiden
artists awed humming
alchemists delight
aligned with capricorn's might
pristine determined
raw unadorned self
expresses inner kingdom
nourishes itself
secrets in dark roots
poison perceptual moot
duality hoots
sacrifice and faith
face adversity with grace
revelation brace
with each unclasping
petals open mystical
surrender holding
scent nascent nadir
sacred self-preservation
authentic profound
quiet verdict holds
love is not parasitic
terrifying peace
contemplate christmas
quest each due ecstatic depth
silent witness bear
so do I exist
cold thorns after each snow dawn
god's love not forlorn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More than a poet recording words,
not just rhymes on a page,
nor another verse in the wall of poetry.
We are the demolition crew,
swinging wrecking balls at the mundane,
the expected, the politely applauded.
We are the seekers of nirvana,
not in lotus poses and silent chants,
but in the scream of a dying star,
the whisper of wind through shattered glass.
Decay?
We embrace it.
The rot is fertilizer,
the rust, a pigment for our palette.
Society's leftovers,
the discarded dreams, the broken promises,
these are our archaeological digs.
We are miners sifting through the dust,
separating the divine's sparkle
from the fool's gold of false idols.
The pabulum fed to weary hearts?
We spit it out.
We are alchemists of absence,
builders of cathedrals from ash,
architects of soaring meditations,
born from the embers of what was.
We are more than penmen and penwomen.
we are purveyors of truth.
The ancient alchemists truly had the right ideas,
With knowledge in science, philosophy and mysticism.
They pursued a recipe for a phenomenal universal elixir
Which would cure all our un-eases.
Or spiritual enlightenment for all.
But I think the most fascinating critical thinking
Is the idea that this chemist of sorts,
Could take a base metal like lead,
And somehow miraculously transform it to gold.
So, weird, surreal and remarkable, outside of the box!
Then time moves on and ideas that sounded
Ridiculous get recycled and rehashed.
Their misinformed unscientific theories,
Somehow, make it full circle.
Today we know they were on to something.
All they needed back then was to create a nuclear reaction
In a particle accelerator like the large Hadron Collider.
But although the idea is solid
The amount of energy it takes to create
The smallest little bit of unstable gold.
I think going forward our energy may be best spent.
Seeking their other endeavor
Spiritual Enlightenment!
Jolly good time
Under the railroad tracks
Never know what you might find
Kalidescope of possibilities
You accumulate a pile of goodies
Alchemists would be jealous
Relishing my variety of dubious choices
Delightful place to find treasure, car parts, used gum
On this gangrenous planet, where the sky bears the scars of time gone by,
we should refrain from weaving plans from threads of illusions and hopes,
yet we continue to craft them with an optimism that pulses deep within our veins,
like a reflex of the dying seeking light in the final darkness of the day.
We cling to dreams like pale stars barely shining,
in a universe that hides its future under a veil of uncertainty and silence,
but even in the face of a world decomposing under the weight of its own mistakes,
we dare to hope, to plan, to weave stories from the ashes of the present.
Perhaps this optimism is merely a flickering flame in the cold wind of reality,
but within it, we find the strength to dream, to rise from the ruins of a shattered past,
and in every plan we make, in every hope we keep alive,
we discover fragments of light, echoes of a possibility for rebirth.
And so, on this ailing planet, where time counts its heartbeats,
we build our future from fragments of optimism, like alchemists of the dream,
seeking magic amidst despair and sunrises in the midst of perpetual night,
for even on the edge of the abyss, we remain seekers of miracles and lights.
I write to you from inside an empty skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as we all may well know.
I am a man of great hope,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment,
yet always working toward
a transmutation to the gold
of one more legendary day.
I must go now for the sun is setting
and in this hollow bone
a bird in a golden tree sings of
a sun that rises only to set.
It sings also of a mythical land,
where seven lesser deities'
number the hours on a faceless dial,
an infernal device
that measures the days
between the beginning and the end,
as if Thursday were but a dream
yet to be begun or imagined.
For all those women who are alchemists. We take the Darkness and transmute it to the Light.
Women who are alchemists
By Michelle Morris
07/12/2024
May you be blessed to meet them
Those women who are alchemists
They take the Darkness from the planet
And transmute it to Light and Blessings
They've lived in the Dark Abyss and Hell
They've faced their own demons over and over again
They've battled demons for the multitudes
And risen like the phoenix from the ashes
They're Empaths and Earth Angels
They're Healers and Lightworkers
They help by shining their Lights brightly
Even when they're tired and weary
May you be Grateful to them
Their Love and Light and Grace
For the Hope and Faith they inspire
To the entire Human Race
© Michelle Morris, 2024
A Bushel Of Sage, I'm Stardust
Ascending through meditation, Soul Drifting Wanderlust
Seven Doors To Heaven
VICTORIOUS! I Raise the Alchemists Scepter,
Climbing Stairways above the Mists Of Life
Rising Aflame, Blazing Lights like Nazarites
Aura Sheens Of Infinity the Spirit Gleams Forever
Soaring Above Lies & Oppressors,
Ever-Flowing like the Grace of an Epic Zen Master
My Hearts Deep and Rich like Jasper,
Flying Ever-Higher, Ever-Faster
I'm a Full Throttle Cosmo Threshold Smasher,
Sailing Seas Of Eternity, I Drift the Inner Galactics
There, The Promise Lands we Inhabit
Beyond the Chords Of Time, Enshrined, The Elixir Of Life
BEHOLD, The Mystical, BEHOLD, The Divine
Intolerance weaves threads of hatred
in the fabric of our scary times,
innocent blood is shed in madness,
fanaticism spreads like wild fire,
life is splintered by lancet of chaos
into disposable debris uncared,
in the psychic grip of insolent stress
the fostered relationships crash.
Before the world order collapses
I ardently wish the times change,
war-tanks become pianos,
guns form harmonic flutes,
deadly arsenals turn harps,
mercenaries become violins,
and they all perform the symphony
of peace and universal brotherhood.
Before the hourglass breaks,
let the essence of times change,
thorns of contempt turn into flowers,
cactus of hatred into branch of olive,
crooked minds morph into alchemists,
and make the golden strands
that will create the garlands,
intertwining all of us with love.
_________________
June 8, 2022
Contest : If Only My Wish Would Come Ture
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Dear Thursday
though you are a day yet hours away,
yet let me love you.
I write to you from inside a skull
because Wednesday can be hollow and bony
as you well know.
Though you are as yet untried
I am this man of great faith,
not unlike those earlier alchemists
with their gathered elements about them,
their cauldrons and scales,
their mystic science brewing
into crescendos of disappointment, yet
always working towards one more day,
a transmutation to gold.
My heart is in an attic under a dome today
and I write this way so you will know
that love is not a stranger to me,
even though I work alone in the dark bone,
I look toward you with great love.
Dear Thursday, a bright window has appeared,
has materialized, formed I think
from these laden words.
It is full of light and delight dear Thursday,
this Wednesday has bloomed
as a lotus will from the dark mud, and while
I shall always be faithful to you
my dearest Thursday
I must go now for the sun is rising,
a bird in a golden tree sings for me this day,
dear Thursday,
and not you.
I will wear a mask
but not a blindfold
listen as the lies be told
while others have a line to hold
I will not succumb
to mindless mutterings
of inane conspiracies
always pointing .....elsewhere
I will stand
because I stood
before hate's onslaught
bore its tainted touch
I did not yield then
nor will I now
to appease the soft skinned
bullies of academia's alchemists
I am of simple birth
a wearied warrior
scarred by schoolyard tongues
molded by fear's response
I will not tolerate
the crushing of the dreams
of those not yet hardened
and shaped on life's anvil
John G. Lawless
8/26/2020
GIT THEE BEHIND ME SATAN-
All my soul within me pitching
Git thee behind me Satan
All my soul within me ditching
Only this and a shepherdess
Much I not marveled the mystic exorcist
Git thee behind me Satan
My mind always strays to enchanters
Much I not marveled this splendid priestess
I discovered the alchemists
And its eyes have all the witching
Git thee behind me Satan
The whipsaw witchery whipsawing
And so I screamed, 'Is that a theologian?'
Enchantress - enchantress - enchantress!
Suddenly, I heard some magicking
God forbid
The occult smiled
God and I proclaim...Git thee behind me Satan
Demons cries and flees
Gods children and angels singing
Git thee behind me Satan
8/9/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
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